"The Incompatible Arts of Invisibility and Belonging…Oh! And a Couple of Reasons I Think Belonging is an Art"

I stood far closer than I was comfortable, arms crossed, trying to make myself as small as possible. I wished I could be invisible.

At 15 years old, I felt invisible 95% of the time, and the other 5%, I wished I could be. I didn't like attention even if it was positive attention. I was never comfortable with compliments. Even within my talents and abilities, even in places I was well-suited to belong, I never felt good enough to actually belong.  

Always the imposter, trying to remain invisible. Always choosing to blend in to the background. 

Me as a teen—hiding behind a guitar—pretty typical in those days

Much like what was happening that very moment: I was standing in a circle with several "popular" people. They were all talking and laughing, and I was doing everything in my power to not be seen, heard, or noticed.  

I stood there fidgeting, shifting my weight, trying to find a way to stand that would at least give the appearance of belonging.  

One of my precious few friends had invited me in--into The Circle. She was a natural artist when it came to making friends, seemingly able to connect with anyone including those in the "In Crowd." And for some reason that I was not able to decipher at the time, she had chosen me as one of her closest companions.  

Despite the open invitation, in my mind, I was still the outsider. I had convinced myself way beforehand that I didn't belong there.  

Not with them. Not anywhere, really. 

Each person in that circle seemed incredibly cool and sure of themselves.  

And then there was me. Awkward and incredibly shy, hiding behind a face full of makeup and baggy clothes. I was sure no one wanted to see the real me so I made sure they couldn't. 

I was convinced they didn't want me there, and certain they were just waiting for the outsider to leave.  

Simultaneously unseen and unwanted.  

I looked over at my friend who was obviously right at home in the middle of the crowd, painting the conversation with her laughter and well-timed stories and jokes. 

And I admit, I was jealous. I so wished I could paint the conversation with my own unique palette. I felt inadequate in every way. I felt I had nothing of note to contribute to the conversation, and no one cared what I had to say anyway…at least, that was the thought playing on repeat in my head. 

I made up some excuse and walked quickly away, choosing my pace carefully so as not to stand out more than I already felt I did. And I wondered to myself if anyone had even noticed that I had left. 

I felt like the misfit of misfits. I felt like a failure.  

I so badly wanted to belong, but I didn't.  

I couldn't.  

Even now, when I see a huddled collection of people, laughing and talking together, I can quickly become that anxious teenager again, wishing I could disappear while simultaneously wishing I could belong. 

That deep soul wound of unbelonging runs deep, and sometimes the wound gets reopened.  

I've stood in circle after circle since that time at camp all those years ago, and there will still be a voice in my head. The voice tells me all the reasons I should hide or leave. It tells me all the reasons I am unqualified to be there, all the ways I don't fit in, all the rules that I'm breaking by even trying to belong there. 

And what are these rules of belonging? If I could just figure those out… 

I'm good at following rules. It's another way I've learned to hide, to make myself invisible. 

But there's no real belonging there, no real connection. 

It doesn't feel fair that my kiddo can go to the park and make a friend within seconds. All it takes is for her to see someone she wants to befriend, and she asks the simple question, "Do you want to be friends with me?" And the other kid will answer, "YES!" and then they run off together to play like they've known each other for a decade; she hasn't even lived that long.  

There are no rules in their minds to belonging.  

And maybe that's where we go wrong as adults.  

It seems the older we get, the more rules there are. 

But what if there aren't meant to be rules for belonging, just like there aren't meant to be rules in art? 

Maybe we create rules because we are creative beings, and so we misuse our creativity for things like making up rules. After all, rules do seem to make things more simple. Sometimes. 

But those rules seem to disconnect and divide us even more, when what we all really want and need is to be seen, to be known, and to be loved.  

Without having to bend and contort ourselves into unnatural shapes. 

Without having to be something or someone that we are not.  

Without all the striving. 

Without the rules getting in the way. And the rules seem to always get in the way.  

But maybe belonging, like art, sometimes requires us to put aside our rules. 

Maybe belonging is an art. 

After all, both art and belonging seem to come naturally to some.  

That friend who invited me into the circle all of those years ago…she seemed to have it. That "je ne sais quoi," that natural gift or affinity towards belonging--just like one of those creative people who naturally ooze artistic talent.  

My grandpa used to describe it this way when it came to his chosen art form, music:  

"Some cats got it. Some cats don't." 

And there is something to be said of natural talent. 

But I know enough about art and any type of creative venture to know that natural talent is only as good as the artist's willingness to ACT on the talent, to do the hard work, to learn techniques. To try new things. To actually TRY.  

Art requires putting pen to paper. Paintbrush to canvas. Fingers to instruments. 

And then, those artists have to take the scariest step of all by sharing their art with others, allowing themselves and their art to be seen. 

And what if belonging is the same? 

We don't know our capabilities until we try. 

Until we make that phone call or text that friend we connected with randomly at the park or store. 

Until we introduce ourselves to that person that we feel drawn to. 

Until we invite that new friend over for dinner at our messy, imperfect house. 

Until we say the thing we want to say while we're standing in those circles of our perceived unbelonging. 

And my stomach flips just thinking about that, too, because these things require us to be SEEN.  

They require us to step out of our safe and dimly-lit comfort zones, and into what feels like center-stage. The spotlight pointing straight at us, putting ourselves on display, along with our perfections and imperfections. Both of which make us want to hide sometimes. 

And for those like me, and perhaps like you, who have grown accustomed to making ourselves smaller and less intrusive… 

For those of us, who have become shape-shifters of sorts by doing whatever it takes to blend in with whatever group we're standing in… 

For those of us who are well-adept at making ourselves invisible in whatever way possible… 

Allowing ourselves to be seen as we truly are feels more than a little daunting; it's scary as hell.  

But if belonging is an art, it is also a process.  

And if we can remember that, it might be slightly less scary. 

As much as art seems to come naturally to some people, even these naturally talented people will tell you that they have had to plan, study, explore different techniques, dig deep for motivation and clarity, and a whole list of other things that we don't ever see. 

We don't see the artist as they're struck with an idea and have to scramble to find a pen to jot it down.  

We don't typically see them plan, sketch, or outline. 

We don't see the mistakes they made during the creative process that they had to figure out how to fix. 

We just see the finished product. Not the process. Not all the small steps in between. 

We don't all see the process, but there are some that do; most artists that I know have a few people in their lives that DO get to see their process. 

These precious few get to see the artist's work in all its stages before the artist shares their work with the world.  

Perhaps belonging can start there, too--with a precious few that get to see us in process. 

I believe this is what leads to the truest form of belonging. It starts with the deep connection made by seeing someone in process. The process is the most beautiful part despite its pain points. 

If that still sounds daunting, if allowing yourself to be seen at all still feels like the most terrifying thing in the world, perhaps this thought from Sarah E. Westfall will help.  

"Start small, go slowly, and dig deeper—choosing the way of depth over breadth—because connection is not a race but an invitation."

Belonging is an art. Art is a process.  

And one of the first steps in the creative process of belonging is connection. 

And connection is not a race. 

It is an invitation. 

And there will be some who choose not to accept your invitation. They're not your people, and that's ok. 

I invite you to step into the creative process anyway, the creative process of belonging.  

Perhaps we can start with those already close to us, reaching out with the only thing we have to give…our true, authentic selves.  

Throw out the rule book. Pick up the paintbrush. Pick up the pen. Start creating.  

And allow yourself to be seen because someone out there is going to find warmth and belonging right next to you…Yes, even while you're in process.